


Ivory & Steel

by gawaine



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-16 06:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11823000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gawaine/pseuds/gawaine
Summary: Jon Snow is not a bastard.As the North reels from the news that the White Wolf is no wolf at all - but a dragon, Rhaegar's dragon - and his aunt, the Dragon Queen, continues to win hearts during her conquest of Westeros, the man formerly known as Jon Snow must make a choice. A choice in his role as the Targaryen prince and heir, in the grand scheme of the game of thrones.And that choice is one of an alliance.In the North, his cousin and once half-sister, the Red Wolf, the Queen of the North, the Lady Stark. In the South, his aunt, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.Jon makes his choice, for his family, for his people, for his home.But who ever said the path to love was an easy one?***





	1. Chapter 1

_You’re a… Southerner_ ? 

Those are the words that ring in Jon’s head as he sits in the hall of Winterfell, Sansa’s reaction to the news that her half-brother is her cousin. A Targaryen. 

A Southerner. 

Jon likes to think Sansa had wanted to say something else. Anything else. Even _not a bastard_ would do. He didn’t mind being called a bastard, or being judged by whether he was one or not. But Southerner? That felt worse, somehow. Even when he’d been the Stark bastard, a Snow, he’d been a Northerner. Through and through. That was something that, no matter who his parents or what his standing, nobody could take from him. Something he had in common with his siblings - _siblings_. 

Cousins, now, he supposed. 

Jon sighed, all of his council and closest friends surrounding him. 

Well, almost all of them. 

Sansa isn’t there. 

Ever since the news has broken out regarding Jon’s true parentage, the North has become divided (what a surprise). There are those that believe Jon to be a traitor, some sort of spy for the Dragon Queen in the South (… _Southerner_! Him!) who is not to be trusted; and those who believe that, despite the unfortunate truth of his biological father, being a Stark by blood is still enough to command a begrudging acceptance. After all, he was accepted as Ned Stark’s bastard. Why not Ned Stark’s nephew? 

But there is one thing that is very clear - whether the Northerners (of which Jon _is_ one) decide to plot against him or not, he is no longer their King. Even with Bran unable to produce an heir, and Robb and Rickon dead, the North will not allow a Targaryen - even one with Lyanna Stark’s blood running through his veins - to inherit the North. 

Instead, the North has declared for their new leader - the Queen in the North, the Red Wolf, the Lady Stark of Winterfell, Ned and Catelyn Stark’s true born heir. 

It was always coming. Jon doesn’t begrudge her for it. Ruling in the North suits Sansa, and she’s good at it, in the way their father - or, Jon supposes, his uncle - wasn’t. 

… Which is why Jon is having this meeting. As the true heir to the Targaryen throne (and even weeks later, that’s taking some getting used to), allegiances must be made. He just has to decide which one. 

Sansa sends what Jon now assumes to be the equivalent of her Queensguard - the Lady Brienne - instead, much to Tormund’s delight. As much as Jon wishes he could think otherwise… He knows why, too. 

Jon must make an alliance. The North needs an alliance. 

And Jon has a decision to make. 

“So, what’re my options?” Jon asks tiredly, breaking the silence. 

His friends glance at each other. Gendry sits in the corner, now one of Jon’s closest friends, and looks up to Sir Davos; Davos hesitates, before glancing over to Brienne; Brienne looks downward and Tormund stares up at Jon and shrugs, unafraid to respond first. 

“The fuck if I know.” He says gruffly. “You’re a Southern shit. It’s got nothing to do with a Northern fucker like me.” 

Jon sighs. 

“The way it seems to me, Your G-” Davos pauses, and there’s an awkward still in the air as Jon, and the rest of his council, realise he is no longer a King. Except he is. Kind of. Just not theirs. “ -… Er, the way it seems to me, is that your options are… Brides. Your aunt in the South, or your sister in the North.” 

Jon glares up at him. “Yes, thank you, Sir Davos, I don’t need reminding.” 

Davos clears his throught. “Just reminding everyone of the context, Your-” 

“Just call me by my name.” 

“As you wish, Y - Jon.” Davos amends quickly. He thinks for a moment. “Though I have to say, it doesn’t sound very Targaryen. Not enough _y_ ’s in it.” 

“The fuck is he talking about?” Tormund asks no-one in particular, staring at Davos incredulously. Davos shrugs. “So that’s it. Marry your sister or your aunt.” 

The room goes silent as Jon’s face becomes serious - well, more so than usual - and it occurs to him, in that moment, that he has no right to even be there. Not really. Not sitting at the table that used to be his… _Uncle_ ’s. This is Sansa’s seat. A Northerner’s seat. A Stark’s seat. 

_You’re a Southerner_ . 

It itches at him, that label, makes him scowl. Joffrey was a Southerner. The Lannisters are Southerners. The Boltons took orders from Southerners, when they butchered Robb and the rest of Jon’s family, at the Red Wedding. 

“And Sansa really has nothing to say?” Jon asks Brienne earnestly. She hesitates. “She has no opinion on how the future of her kingdom may be affected by the decision that I make, _we_ make, in this room?” 

“As I told you, Your…” Brienne glances at Davos. “… Jon, Lady Stark has sent her apologies and is unable to attend due to events that demand her attention.” She clears her throat, as the rest of the room stares at her. “Northern events.” 

_And you’re a Southerner, so it’s none of your damned business_ . 

“Of course.” Jon says quietly. It’s horse dung, and they all know it. “I didn’t mean to question you.” 

Brienne nods. It’s awkward for everyone. 

“Is there anyone you like more?” Gendry asks. Jon looks up at him in surprise - and he isn’t the only one. Gendry shrugs. “It’s a valid question. Forget the politics for a minute, can you imagine being married to either one of them?” 

Jon appreciates the sentiment, and for a moment, he almost sees Robb there, standing behind Gendry and nodding in agreement. 

Then again - if Robb knew what Jon was considering, he may have had his head. 

Or would he? 

“They’re both related to me.” Jon says, beginning to think out loud. “Daenerys is my aunt-” 

“And that’s a Hell of a lot further away than siblings, which is your family’s usual tradition.” Davos adds helpfully. 

Jon closes his eyes in defeat for a moment - but otherwise, chooses to ignore him. 

“- she is my aunt,” He repeats. “But I didn’t know that until now. She’s practically a stranger to me.” 

“That sounds like a good thing. Bit more normal.” Gendry says, muttering the last bit. Jon nods slightly. He’s not wrong. “But then what of the North? Your sisters, your brother - or, well, your cousins, I suppose?” 

Jon looks to Davos. 

“Technically, Sansa’s still married to Tyrion. That could form an alliance, should Jon and the Dragon Queen decide to… Copulate.” Jon actually makes a noise at that, turns his head away and shakes it, because really, Davos is enjoying this a little bit more than he should be. Jon knows Davos is thinking of Dragonstone - how he’d teased him, about Daenerys’ beauty and her _good heart_. “Though, that’s not without its problems. This country has had enough of incest thanks to the Lannisters, and I can’t see the Northerners seeing their Queen with one of them, even if he does work for the Dragon Queen. That may make it worse. Not to mention, we’re not sure that the Dragon Queen can reproduce… Normally.” 

Gendry frowns. “What does that mean?” 

“Daenerys sees her dragons as her children.” Jon explains. “I’m not entirely certain, but from what I understand… There’s a possibility that, because of that, she may not bear children. _Human_ children.” The clarification makes Jon frown slightly because, honestly, what has his world become? 

“Well, then you end up with the same problem you had to start with.” Gendry says, seemingly frustrated. _That makes both of us_ , Jon thinks sourly. “The whole point of marrying for an alliance is to produce an heir. If your heir is three dragons-” 

“Not bad heirs to have.” Tormund mutters from the corner. 

“- yeah, except for the part where they can’t exactly sit in the throne room. And who’s going to control them once you’re both gone?” Gendry argues. “Then… What’s the point? Doesn’t it then make more sense for you to marry your sister?” 

“Please stop saying that.” Jon sighs, rubbing his head. 

“You’re stronger in the North. Safer. Your entire family got butchered once they went down South-” 

“Yes, thank you, Tormund, I do remember!” Jon snaps. “And they’re - they’re not my family, not anymore-” 

“So you don’t care about them anymore?” Gendry asks. 

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Jon bursts - and as his voice echoes throughout the hall, he sighs. “Of course I _care_. I never _stopped_ caring. But I’m not a Stark, and I never have been-” 

“Except you are. You got pushed out of a Stark’s cunt, didn’t you?” Tormund points out - and Jon audibly groans, because that isn’t at all the point. “Listen to me, pretty man. Your father - the one who raised you and taught you to fight and let you grow out your pretty man hair - was a Stark. The woman who brought you into this world was a Stark. Fuck anyone else. If you think they’re your family, then they’re your family.” 

They were all silent as Tormund’s words sunk in - and Jon can’t help how his eyes wander over to the Stark banner hanging from the wall, all he’s ever known. 

“If the Starks are my family - and I’m not saying they’re not-” Jon adds that last bit quickly. “- then how can I marry my sister? How does that _help_ them?” 

“It keeps the Stark line running, without giving the power of the North to another house. It saves your sister from making another terrible alliance like the ones she’s already had to endure. It saves the North from potentially civil war.” Davos answers immediately - but it’s not enough. It makes sense, yes, but it’s not the full answer Jon wants - or needs. 

“And what about the other house I’m meant to serve?” Jon pushes. “How do I justify that?” 

“You heard Daenerys in Dragonstone. She won’t give the North independence, it’s one of the Seven Kingdoms.” Davos sighs and shakes his head. “But you marrying S-… The Lady Stark, well, it’s somewhere in the middle. A compromise. Your and her children would have a claim to the Iron Throne as well as the North-” 

“Children!” Jon huffs, and Davos sensibly falls quiet. _Children_. As if… As if that’s all Sansa is, a brooding mare, as if that’s the only reason she matters. 

“He’s only talking in the way everyone else will be, if you’re not the one to marry her.” Gendry points out. Jon sighs again - but this time, louder, and with a heavier heart than before. “Look, it sounds to me like the result is pretty obvious. Let the Dragon Queen sit on the Iron Throne, that’s all she’s ever wanted. When she dies, you can take it-” 

“I don’t _want_ the Iron Throne!” Jon says impatiently. 

“Fine!” Gendry laughs. “Then don’t! Stay in the North, have your children rule the Seven Kingdoms, they’ll have a better claim than anyone!” 

“And what about you?” Jon asked shrewdly. Sitting a small way behind Gendry, Brienne and Jon meet eyes as he speaks - and although it’s Jon’s voice they all hear, Brienne knows it’s Sansa’s thoughts being spoken. “What about your claim? You’re a Baratheon, the only true Baratheon left. Your father killed a Targaryen-” 

“Yeah, and so did yours. The one that raised you, like Tormund said.” Gendry nodded, his expression earnest. Jon has learnt that, most of the time, it is. He values that about him - Gendry’s honesty, above all else. Its stayed the same since the day they met, back in that cave in Storm’s End - before Jon knew any of this. Before this was a decision he had to make. “And now here I am, Robert Baratheon’s last bastard, sitting in Ned Stark’s home, discussing the future of the Seven Kingdoms with a half-Stark, half-Targaryen who everyone used to think was a bastard, too. I think it’s safe to say times have changed a little bit.” 

Jon raises an eyebrow, in a sort of… Signal of agreement. Gendry wasn’t exactly wrong. 

Jon thinks for a few moments, struggling to understand. He’s not good at this. He never has been. But he needs to find a way, a new way, to… Win this war. Except this is a war of the mind, and Jon is a soldier for the body. 

Sansa would know what to do. 

“What if I don’t have to marry either one of them?” Jon offered. “Like Gendry just said, he’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard. The Starks and the Baratheons fought Robert’s Rebellion together, they started it all. What about Gendry and Daenerys?” 

Davos scoffs. “And are you going to be the one to recommend that to her?” 

Jon is getting impatient. “We can cross that bridge when we come to it-” 

“It doesn’t make sense.” Gendry interrupts - and Jon listens, because Targaryen or Stark, every man is entitled to share his opinion. And King or not, Jon believes that everybody deserves that courtesy. “I’m a low-born bastard, and people barely remember the House of Baratheon now. It’s too late for any of that. And I don’t want it.” 

Jon’s eyes narrow. “But you want my sister?” 

The room stills. 

“The other one?” Jon clarifies, rolling his eyes slightly. In the corner, Tormund’s shoulders - which tensed, at the thought of Gendry being after Sansa - relax slightly, and Jon, out of nowhere, fights the urge to smirk as Tormund glances at Brienne. It’s something he can relate to, it would seem. 

“Arya and I knew each other a long time ago.” Gendry nods. “But… I can’t speak for her. And that’s not the only reason that I’m saying no. It doesn’t make sense.” 

Jon and Gendry watch each other - but finally, Jon nods. He understands, and he respects Gendry’s decision. It was a long shot, anyway. 

Silence fills the hall again. It hurts Jon. It hurts him to think of what it used to be, what it still could be… Everything it will be. 

Everything it will be, without him. Again. 

Winterfell is home. The North is home. And yet, it’s as if every time he stops fighting, every time he finds it within himself to have hope that he may be able to settle, slow down, have a family, be _normal_ \- tragedy strikes again. Power strikes again. And back to war he goes. 

“If I may speak?” 

Jon looks up at surprise at Brienne’s voice - but he nods, slowly, as Brienne rises to her feet. 

Tormund’s eyes light up as she does. 

“I cannot speak for Lady Stark. I am only here as her chosen representative, in these… Private matters.” Brienne continues carefully. Jon nods. He understands. He’s not dealing with Sansa, that’s been made quite clear, and he’s not dealing with the Queen in the North, either. Right now, it’s entirely possible that he’s just dealing with Sansa’s friend - or, the closest thing she’s had to a friend in a very long time. It’s one of the reasons Jon likes Brienne so much (another reason is how her presence turns Tormund into a blushing maid). “But from what I understand… You and Lady Stark were never close, growing up here in Winterfell?” 

The question takes Jon by surprise. 

“Aye.” He nods, though clearly confused. “What of it? We were still raised as siblings, under the same house-” 

“Were you?” Brienne interrupts. Jon stops, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “You’ve made it quite clear, as least to my eyes, that it was always you and the Lady Arya that were close-” 

“What difference does that make?” Jon asks impatiently, fidgeting now. “She was still raised as my sister, I grew up seeing her as my sister, she took Winterfell alongside me _as my sister-_ ” 

“But your father - or rather, the Lord Eddard - knew otherwise.” Brienne says carefully. Jon listens. “And he never pushed you toward the Lady Sansa. And, from my understanding, openly criticised the possibility of Lady Stark and the late King Joffrey’s marriage-” 

“King.” Gendry snorts under his breath. 

“So you’re saying my father would have _wanted_ me to marry Sansa?” Jon asks incredulously. “Or that her mother-” 

“The Lady Catelyn died without knowing the truth about your parentage.” Brienne says, in a voice that warns she won’t hear another word against Catelyn. Jon supposes he can understand that. “All I’m saying is that…” She sighs, then - and suddenly, with irritation clearly on her face, Brienne’s formality disappears. “Look, if familial ties and honour are the only reason that you’re hesitating to marry the Lady Stark, then I would ask you to consider what Lord Eddard and the Young Wolf would have considered _honourable_ in this position. Had they known what would happen after they died, and had they known you to be the true Targaryen heir.” 

“Lord Eddard _did_ know.” Jon says, his voice… Angry. More so than he would expect. “He did know and he kept it a secret-” 

“To stop my father from killing you.” Gendry points out. 

“What does it _matter_?” Jon laughs, though not because anything is funny. “Do you honestly think Robb would want me to marry Sansa? Or father? Or Lady Catelyn, or even Bran, or Arya-” 

“I think Robb and your father would have considered it better than her marrying a Lannister!” Brienne argues. 

“Sir Davos is right, Tyrion is another contender. He was kind to her, she said so herself-” 

“Yes. And kind he may be, but that marriage was forced upon her by the likes of Tywin and Cersei Lannister, who held her captive in King’s Landing \- the reason Robb rose up against them in the first place! For your father’s death, for taking away your sisters-” 

“Lady Brienne.” Jon says firmly. “I do not understand-” 

“Then listen, you fool!” Brienne snaps - and the rest of the room pauses in surprise. Except for Tormund. Tormund chuckles to himself and Jon has to fight to not roll his eyes. “I’m sorry, I - if honour is what stops you, then consider what you’d be asking Sansa to do. Make an alliance with her enemies. Have the blood of her enemies sustained within her-” 

“I don’t want that for her, of course I don’t!” 

“Robb and Lord Eddard never would have wanted that for her. Robert Baratheon never would have wanted that for her!” Brienne is quieter now, more beseeching. “By the Gods, I - I’m no politician, as Gendry says. And it makes no difference to me, either way, because the Starks will have me in their service for as long as they will have me, but you do the House Stark no dishonour by saving my Lady Stark from more than what she’s already been forced to endure!” 

The room is silent, stunned by Brienne’s outburst. But Jon… Jon isn’t stunned. He sighs to himself, softened by Brienne’s passion. 

“Maybe you’re right.” He says quietly. “Maybe, if Father and Robb were still here, and if they knew everything, they would prefer it. But I don’t know that. And neither do you.” 

Brienne nods in respect - and Jon nods back. 

“But thank you for your honesty.” Jon tells her - and he offers Brienne a small smile. “Either way, I feel… Better, knowing Sansa has you at her side.” 

Brienne straightens at the compliment and Jon feels… Glad to have said it, even if only now. She sits, and the hall becomes silent again. 

“Gendry’s right. You all are.” Jon finally says, after what feels like eons. “But I can’t make this decision alone. I need to speak with my s-” Jon pauses, and it feels as if the very walls are staring at him, _glaring_ at him, questioning his every move. “I need to speak with Lady Stark.” 

“All that talking and you need to talk some more?” Tormund snorts, oblivious to how the weight of Jon’s words have settled heavily in the air. “I always said you Southern shits talk too much.” 

Jon looks heavenward for some patience - and wonders what his father, _his_ father, the Lord Stark, would make of what the world has become. 

… 

They meet in the crypts of Winterfell. 

It’s a grim choice, but it seems fitting. And it’s private there - beyond the glances and whispers that now dominate Winterfell’s grounds, away from the conspiracies, Northern and Southern. 

It’s not just Sansa, either - it’s all of them. Sansa and Arya and Bran. The last remaining Stark children… And as Jon approaches them, he realises that this is the last Stark family gathering to which he will be a part. 

Of course, it’s their father’s - Jon still doesn’t know how to call Ned anything other than that - statue that they all come together at. Bran sits in his chair, Arya speaking softly to him from behind. 

And then there’s Sansa - Sansa, who, leaning against one of the stone arches of the crypt, watches Ned’s statue with the seriousness that Jon has become so familiar with. Her face seems sharp, hard and itself carved of stone, in the dim light the torches provide… And Jon hesitates, at the beginning of the crypt, watching the three of them and wondering how to have the conversation he needs to have. 

Oddly enough, it’s Sansa who seems to notice him first. 

She glances up - and when she meets Jon eyes, and he feels his shoulders sag - in shame? Embarrassment? Shyness? He himself isn’t sure -, she straightens, holding herself like a lady again. 

Like a Queen. 

As Jon walks towards them, as he hears the ground beneath his boots, he hears Arya’s sharp intake of breath upon seeing him. He sees how Bran becomes still… And it hits him, truly hits him, that, despite everything they’ve been through, everything may go back to the way it was. Before the war. Before Ned died. 

Jon may be alone again. 

It’s a ridiculous thought, sudden and intrusive, and Jon feels silly to even think it - but that doesn’t stop the seed from rooting itself in his head and worse, his heart, as he approaches them. 

He slows as he reaches the statue of Lyanna Stark, beside her brother. The three Starks - Jon supposes he isn’t one of them anymore, not by name at least. He never really was - watch him carefully, as he faces it, standing to full height and feeling his eyebrows furrow in confusion as he stares up at the eroding statue before him. 

“This is the first time you’ve been down here since you found out.” Bran says, in that ghostly voice he uses now. It creeped Jon out when he first heard it. He didn’t even sound like Bran anymore. “Since you knew your mother’s name.” 

Jon glances at him warily, unsure of what it is he’s meant to say next. The torches crackle quietly around them, and Jon turns one last time to the statue… Before reaching the others. 

Before reaching Ned. 

_Uncle Ned_ . That was who his father was to him really. What had he said, that last day? Jon could remember it as if it were only minutes ago. 

_You are a Stark. You may not have my name, but you have my blood_ . 

“I wish he’d told me.” Jon sighs heavily, his voice laden with sadness, as he stares up at the statue. 

He doesn’t see it - but Arya does, and, well, Bran sees everything. It’s easier to assume he always does. But Sansa knows Arya sees it - because Arya stiffens at, upon hearing the sadness and regret in Jon’s voice, Sansa’s face flickers ever-so-slightly with… Something. 

“You can’t marry her.” Arya says, her voice eerily strong in the quiet of the crypt. Sansa trains her eyes to the floor. “She’s your sister. _I’m_ your sister. If you marry her, you’re telling everyone that you’re not a Stark. That you never were.” 

“But that’s the truth.” Jon smiles sadly. “And you are my sisters, of course you are-” 

“Then you can’t marry her.” 

“… But I’m also a Targaryen, too.” Jon finishes quietly, glancing back at Lyanna. “Father knew that. Maybe he-” 

“What?” Arya asks belligerently, stepping forwards. Jon quietens. “Planned this? Wanted you to marry Sansa? Are you so desperate to forget us, that you’d bring Targaryen traditions into a Northern house?” 

“That’s not fair.” Jon sounds hurt. Arya barely flinches. “I have to make a choice. A difficult choice-” 

“It’s not that difficult.” 

Jon laughs. Arya doesn’t seem to find it funny. 

“Of course you see it that way!” He tells her. He knows, of course. Of what she’s endured, of what little she’ll share. “But the world isn’t that simple. To keep the peace, means it can’t _be_ that simple.” 

Jon can’t help it - his eyes flicker to Sansa’s as he speaks, and they hold each other’s gaze and for a moment, Jon swears they can read each other’s minds. It’s the truth. _Their_ truth, the one they’ve both experienced, separately and together. It’s something Arya and Bran don’t necessarily understand, something Jon doesn’t want them to need to. 

These are his family. He wants to protect them. He _needs_ to protect them. 

“ _Why_?” Arya demands angrily - and Sansa and Jon hastily turn away from one another, Jon forced to face Arya as Sansa tries to avoid Bran’s searing, serene gaze. “I can understand her. She’s always wanted to be queen, I always said so-” 

“Arya!” Sansa admonishes - but Jon opens his mouth at the same time and, as they meet eyes again, Sansa hastily falls quiet. 

“That’s not fair.” Jon tells Arya seriously. “I know that. Bran knows that. And deep down, you know that, too.” 

“Do I?” Arya asks coldly. Jon frowns. Sometimes… Sometimes Arya is more him than he is anymore. “All I know is that our father fought in Robert’s Rebellion. That Rhaegar took Aunt Lyanna-” 

“And sired _me_.” Jon says warningly. Sansa’s eyes flit between them as the two of them stand taller, challenging one another with the same, deep brown eyes. The eyes of siblings, Lyanna and Ned Stark. “You may not like it, and I’m not asking you to. I didn't think I _needed_ to. But my parents-” Jon swallows, as Sansa looks up at him. “My parents were wed when I was born. I am a Stark, yes, and you will always be my family, but I have another family, too.” 

“So that’s why you’re here, then?” Arya smirks slightly, that horrible, smug smirk that Sansa hates. The one that isn’t even Arya, not the Arya she remembers. Then again… Now, none of them are the same. “Out of love for the Targaryens? To help the Dragon Queen secure her kingdoms?” Arya’s voice drips with sarcasm. It’s painful to even hear. 

“I’m here to try and do the right thing.” Jon says slowly, carefully, wanting Arya to understand every word. It works - Sansa sees it, how for just a second, Arya begins to doubt herself. But then it’s gone, and Arya’s eyes are black with anger again. “Just like Sansa is. If she agrees…” Jon pauses and looks at Sansa, and this time, Sansa doesn’t look away. Her eyes, that searing Tully blue, stare right into his - and it’s like staring at a White Walker, at an unmovable force, a power that few can understand. That’s who Sansa is. Not just some woman, another faceless lady to marry and produce heirs. Sansa’s a force. “Just like if Sansa agrees to this alliance, she’ll be doing it for the North. For the Starks.” 

“The way you say that makes it clear that you don’t see us as your family anymore.” Arya says - and Sansa sighs silently to herself, closing her eyes, at how cold Arya’s voice has become. “Fine. You’re right, Sansa may be doing this for the North. But you’re doing this for the Queen. A _Targaryen_ Queen.” 

Each word delivers like a punch to the gut. 

“Fine.” Jon says grimly, and Sansa can see the way he clenches his jaw. She knows that look, she knows that tone. He’s becoming a King again, except he’s no longer the King that they all knew. That they all believed in. “Bran. What do you think?” 

Bran looks at Jon calmly, his expression unreadable as ever. 

“I don’t think anything.” He tells Jon simply. Sansa sighs to herself. “I’m the Three-Eyed Raven.” 

Jon can’t help but watch Sansa as she sighs irritatedly. 

“Yes, I know that, Bran, but what does that _mean_?” Sansa asks impatiently, her nostrils flaring ever-so-slightly with frustration. Jon’s noticed it before. 

“It means I can’t help you. It means you’ve already made your decision. I’ve seen it.” 

“Can’t you tell us _what_ you see?” Sansa pushes, her voice grating now. Bran seems unperturbed. “Or… Give us some kind of clue?” 

Bran tilts his head slightly, and for just a second - he’s back. Brandon Stark, with his long, mussed hair and his mischievous smile. Except Bran isn’t smiling, and the warmth in his eyes is gone before his words are finished. 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way.” Bran glances between them - and this time, Jon and Sansa avoid one another’s eyes, instead of instinctively seeking them. “It has to be your choice. Both of your choice.” 

“For all we know, they’ve made it already.” Arya mutters bitterly - and Sansa bows her head again, making something in Jon… Hurt. He’s causing this. He’s the one hurting them, _dividing_ them, and all he ever wanted was for them to be together. “I’m leaving. Bran?” 

“Yes. I’d like to be taken back to the Godswood, please.” Bran smiles serenely between Jon and Sansa. “These two have a lot to discuss.” 

Another quick, stolen glance, between Sansa and Jon. Jon thought they were accidental. Now, he’s not so sure. Without helping it, his eyes keep seeking her out, looking for clues as to her thoughts. 

He hopes it’s just his brotherly affection. He’d hate to think anything else could just… Appear, so quickly. 

They look away again, avoiding each other’s gaze as Arya pushes Bran past them. They’ve barely made it past Lyanna again, when Sansa speaks. 

It surprises him slightly - but still more than it should -, to hear her like that, so strong and authoritative. She’s not just Sansa in that moment. Just like that, she’s Lady Stark of Winterfell again, the Queen in the North. 

“I won’t make this decision without you.” Sansa tells them, looking at her siblings from underneath her long eyelashes. _Her siblings_. This doesn’t include Jon. Arya stills, her back still to Sansa - but she turns Bran’s chair, so that he may see Sansa more clearly, and from where Jon stands, he can see how Arya inclines her head to listen. “This is not just my decision, please know that. This is a decision for House Stark, for _all_ of us, and I want you to know that-” 

“I can’t-” Bran begins - but Sansa rolls her eyes. 

“Oh, shut _up_ , Bran!” She snaps, striding towards them - and Jon avoids Arya’s eyes as she turns to look between them, noticing how Sansa now stands only a few metres from Jon without even realising it. “You are my _brother_. And both of you, as my brother and sister, as the only Stark siblings I have left-” Jon’s ducks his head to hide a small smile. Sansa’s diplomacy never ceases to amaze him - she always strikes, at just the right moment. “- we will make this decision _together_. I swear it.” 

Jon says nothing. Sansa says nothing. Arya and Bran say nothing. 

… And then, so slowly and quickly that if Jon hadn’t seen things less believable he would have doubted his own eyes, Arya nods. Just once, curt, nod. 

Jon and Sansa watch them leave the crypt in silence. 

Jon feels nervous once Arya and Bran are gone - and he feels ashamed, to be here, to be in this position. Without glancing up, he knows Sansa’s eyes are trained on her father’s stone face - and Jon can’t bear to follow them when he stands her, at his father’s grave, considering such a… Sin. A _Lannister_ sin. The sin his father died trying to correct. 

But then he hears Sansa take a deep breath - and when he looks at her, properly, she stands at full height, the Lady of Winterfell once more. 

“Have you come with a proposal-” Sansa stutters slightly, as she becomes aware of her words. Jon feels himself go hot, and has to look away. “… A… Suggestion as towards our political dilemma, my lord?” 

_My lord_ . Jon's head snaps up immediately at those words - so formal, so… Distant. 

But isn’t that to be expected? After all, he’s no longer a Stark. He’s a Targaryen now - a Targaryen prince and Sansa, with her smart mind, knows exactly what that means. 

“I wouldn’t make a decision without you.” Jon replies honestly, before he can consider those words. What they may mean. 

Sansa knows, too. He sees it in the way she glances up at him, so sharply. 

“As your family,” Sansa begins to ask carefully. “Or as your counsel?” 

“Can’t you be both?” Jon jokes. Sansa doesn’t smile, and Jon’s smile quickly fades. “I won’t force you, Sansa. I never would. Please tell me you know that.” 

Sansa frowns slightly for a moment. Jon sees it. But then, just like Arya moments before, it’s gone. 

“I do.” Sansa tells him calmly - but then she’s just Sansa, as the political mask slips away. It shocks him slightly, whenever he sees it, the mask so casually fall - even though he’s seen it enough times now. “I _do_.” She tells him seriously - and that’s when it happens. 

Sansa steps forwards, as if to comfort him - and Jon, automatically, to comfort her - but then they remember. They remember they are not half-brother and sister; they are not the Starks who took Winterfell. They aren’t even lady and bastard. 

They are prince and - should they choose it - his lady. 

Sansa turns away, rests her hand at the base of her father’s statue. Jon swallows loudly, though it does little to help the lump in his throat. 

“Do you think it could be done?” Sansa finally asks, staring up at her father. Jon… Understands. Somehow, he can’t look at her either. “Do you think it should be?” 

“That’s for us to decide.” 

Sansa sighs. 

“It’s odd, you know.” She says - and finally, finally, she looks up at him properly, and she smiles… And tentatively, Jon smiles back, too. “To have you here, in front of me. Jon, but not... Jon.” 

“I’m still me.” Jon promises. Sansa smiles, a secret smile that Jon doesn’t understand. “I am, Sansa.” 

“ _Jon_ , maybe. But not Snow. Not Stark.” She glances away, feeling the next word prepare itself on her tongue, ready to roll from it. “Targaryen.” She says slowly. 

She looks back to her father. 

“If you don’t want to do this, it changes nothing. If you - _can’t_ do this, it changes _nothing_.” Jon promises. Sansa nods, and Jon struggles for words, because accepting his words so easily means that she isn’t really hearing him at all. That’s what it feels like. “Sansa, just - talk to me.” 

“About what? That you’ve thought about it? That I’m thinking about it - that I’m having to?” Sansa asks evenly and Jon swears, upon hearing those words, he freezes. _That I’m thinking about it_. The latter comment seems to fade into oblivion in comparison. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snap, it’s just…” She sighs. “It’s a lot to take in.” 

Jon nods, hoping that will convey his feelings. He was never good with those. But he wants Sansa to understand that… He does. Understand. Understand how hard this must be for, how confusing it all is. How he understands, because he feels it, too. 

“Well, at least you’re handsome. In a soldier sort of way.” 

… Jon’s head snaps up so fast, and his jaw clenches so quickly that, had Sansa turned to look at him, he would’ve thought she was angry. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t. 

“I…” Jon is lost for words. Sansa bends her head to hide her smirk, as Jon fumbles for the right words. “I - ah, I, er…” 

“I thought it, at Castle Black. In a different way, of course. Back then I was just so glad to see someone who was family, and you looked like father…” Sansa smiles at him. Jon’s heart almost stops. And seeing as he’s experienced that before, he doesn’t say it lightly. “You said earlier, that if I didn’t want to… That nothing would change. But I can’t unsee it.” 

Jon’s heart feels… Sluggish in his chest. He hears a roaring in his ears. For a moment, it’s almost like he’s back in battle - except he’s not. He’s not, he’s standing in the crypts of Winterfell, talking to Sansa, and that’s not battle at all. 

But he agrees with her. 

“I don’t know if… After Ramsey, if I’m…” Sansa struggles to find the words, and Jon’s face becomes stern as Sansa begins to fiddle slightly with her sleeve. The wolf emblem on her dress sparkles in the darkness. “… _Attractive_ in the way I once thought-” 

“You’re beautiful.” Jon says sincerely - and they both stop, Jon with his clenched jaw and Sansa with her fiddling, to look at each other’s eyes again instead. If Sansa’s eyes make Jon powerless, Jon’s make her… Warm. Safe. It’s something she’s felt ever since before they retook Winterfell, and now, Sansa worries that it’s given a brand new meaning. “You reminded me of - of your mother, at first.” Jon smiles… But it’s forced, and they both know it, so Jon allows it to quickly fade. “But you’re right.” He admits. “You can’t unsee it.” 

They don’t need to say what. 

“I can’t make this decision on my own.” Sansa says after a few moments of silence - though, in reality, it feels like years. 

“Of course not.” Jon agrees quickly. “You must speak with your advisors, make council-” 

Sansa scoffs quietly. 

“I need to stop Arya from making any more pies.” Sansa murmurs. 

Jon opens his mouth to speak… But decides against it. After all, he may not want to hear who Sansa suspects Arya would fill her latest pie with. 

“You have time, Your Grace.” Jon settles on saying instead - and this time, it’s Sansa whose head jerks up in surprise. Jon almost smiles. He knows the feeling. “There’s no rush.” 

Although it takes a moment - and a quick, scattered breath -, Sansa recovers and sighs, staring up at her father again. 

“That is the very opposite of what the North has.” Sansa says quietly. This time, Jon looks up at the statue too… And he realises just how awful this must be. Why Arya is so angry. Because to anybody else, the North is once again under attack - and it falls on Sansa’s shoulders to protect it. “Time.” 

More silence. 

This time, it’s deafening enough for Jon to think the conversation is over \- and long enough that, after a small amount of deliberation, Jon nods to himself and begins to turn away. 

“What will you do? Seeing as I can’t yet give you an answer?” 

Jon pauses - and Sansa sees that when he looks at her, his eyes are soft and honest. 

It’s not a look she’s used to seeing. It startles her. 

“I’m to travel to King’s Landing.” Jon tells her - and just like that, it feels like the ground has been ripped out from underneath her. Is she relieved? Regretful? The last time Jon left Winterfell, she didn’t see him for… So long. Too long. It was horrible, to feel so confused. Sansa wasn’t used to. She’d known what she’d wanted for so long, but now, as she looked at the cousin who she’d been told to call a brother for so long… She didn’t know which feelings meant what anymore. “I will speak with the Queen regarding the situation in the North, and see if there can be some kind of compromise.” 

Sansa stills. Her face is turned at an angle again, and half of her face is covered in shadow. 

“Under the assumption that I will reject your offer?” She asks carefully. 

Jon smiles. A quick, half-smile. 

“Under the assumption that your life would be easier if the offer didn’t have to be made, Your Grace.” He tells her… And that half-smile becomes something more, as Sansa’s face fills with warmth and gratitude. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

Sansa says nothing - but Jon chooses to take that as confirmation and, nodding to himself one last time, turns away. 

She says it when he’s halfway down the crypt - and when he turns, he sees her surrounded by the flames of the torches, standing by her father’s side. Every bit the Red Wolf, every bit the Stark. 

“Jon?” She calls out first. That’s what makes him turn, what makes him stop and stare slightly in awe of her. Of this… Different person she suddenly appears to be. _You can’t unsee it_. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do, either.” 

He smiles. He nods. He walks away. 

Sansa stays in the crypt a while longer, looking up at her father. 

“What should I do?” She sighs to herself, knowing an answer will never come. 


	2. Chapter 2

**_Winterfell_ **

“Remember to play nice with your sister while I'm gone.” Gendry warns - and Arya rolls her eyes, as he smirks at her. “I mean it! She needs you.”

“For what?” Arya snorts. “Wedding planning?”

“Well, your brother’s a bit creepy-”

“ _I’m_ the only one allowed to say that!” Arya mutters, elbowing him without much conviction. Gendry laughs - and Arya feels like a silly little girl, except she doesn’t really mind, not really, because of how warm Gendry’s smile makes her. “And I don't see why _you_ have to go back there. There's nothing for you in King’s Landing.”

Gendry smirks again, only this time, it’s more… Special. More secret. As if he knows something Arya doesn't.

She doesn't like not knowing things.

“But there's something for me here, is there?” He teases - and Arya quickly paints on a bored expression, to hide her own ineptitude at the subject. “Besides an anvil and watching Tormund drool over Brienne?”

Arya cracks a smile, glancing over her shoulder. Tormund always sits in the corner by the stables - he has a good view of the courtyard from there, and gets to see Brienne whenever she's training. More recently, he's taken to eating the horses’ apples and cheering Brienne on as she attacks Pod. Brienne hates it. Even now, as she speaks with Sir Davos, her nose wrinkles in disdain at Tormund’s gaze.

Nobody complains, of course. Watching Tormund and Brienne has because a pastime.

“What more could you want?” Arya sighs. Gendry’s eyes glint at the joke - and just like that, Arya’s smile fades. “Why do you have to go with them? You're meant to be the smith here at Winterfell. What if someone's sword breaks?”

“They'll just have to get another smith to fix it.” Gendry shrugs.

“What if my sword breaks?” Gendry looks up at her, then - and his eyes seem filled with something, except it's not something Arya understands. Becoming accustomed to the expression of a dead man’s face has done little to prepare Arya for the living. “I'm a lady of Winterfell too, you know. I can't have any old smith repair Needle.”

Gendry smiles, turning away to fix his saddle so that Arya doesn't see - and when he's finally ready to trust his face to return to normal, he turns back to her, as simple as he can manage.

“Then I suppose you'll just have to wait for me, m’lady.”

Gendry’s mouth twitches as Arya stares at him… But the way her mouth curls, supposedly in disdain, Gendry recognises as a hidden smile.

It's their joke. Their own private joke, and their way of softening the goodbye they'd once had. It's a nice reminder, too - that they came so far after so long, only to be together again. It’s… Fitting. Deep down, Gendry likes to think Arya knows that, no matter where he is… He’ll always find his way back to where she is. Winterfell or anywhere else.

“I'm not a lady.” Arya responds, her grin expanding as she gives him a small shove.

Gendry grins to himself, swinging onto his horse. When he looks down at her, he feels… Glad, to see the age on Arya’s face. The definition on her face, the taut skin over bone indicating childhood being left behind.

“Now, now, m’lady.” He tuts - and Arya actually manages a small, wry smile as his horse begins to move. “That wasn't very ladylike.”

Arya shakes her head, stepping back.

“You'd better make it back in one piece, smith.” She calls out to him, as his horse begins to trot towards Jon, by the Winterfell gates.

Gendry grins over his shoulder.

“As m’lady commands.” Even though he calls out, it’s only loud enough for Arya to hear - and she clutches those words close, as the gates open a short while later, and she watches him ride away.

. . .

“I’m sorry.”

Sansa glances up from her desk, to find Arya staring at her with a surly expression in the doorway. They simply… Look at one another at first, almost warily.

“I know.” Sansa finally says - and then she returns her quill back to its pot, waiting for Arya to sit down.

“That’s it?” Her sister asks suspiciously, slowly walking towards her. “No more comments, no scolding me like you’re mother?”

“I’m _not_ mother.” Sansa tells her, sighing as she settles into her chair more comfortably. Arya sits, watching her. “And… Gendry came to see me before her left. He said that you might come to apologise, and I was to accept it, because you’re my sister and I’m one of the few people on this planet you actually love.” Arya frowns at this, and Sansa tilts her head, enjoying Arya’s discomfort. “Even if you struggle to show it.”

“Gendry should keep his nose out of places where it doesn’t belong.”

“He cares about you. About all of us. Any fool could see that.” Sansa’s words are simple, but the twinkle in her eyes makes Arya… Uncomfortable, somewhat. As if she knows something Arya doesn’t. “He’s a good man.”

“I know that.” Arya says quickly, too quickly - and Sansa bows her head to hide her knowing smile, as Arya scowls. “I just don’t understand how you can even consider it. Jon as your…” Arya can’t finish that sentence.

They say nothing for a few moments - and Sansa wonders whether it’s even _worth_ trying to explain. Despite what Sansa had hoped, her and Arya’s different experiences seem to have only driven them apart - and, in times like these, Sansa wonders if the price of coming home is that distance increasing.

“You know, after everything happened in King’s Landing, all I wanted was to come home.” Sansa says softly - and Arya stares up at her with a grim expression, surprised at Sansa’s sudden candour. “And then when Littlefinger sold me to the Boltons and I was back, I realised it wasn’t all I wanted.”

“What else did you want?” Arya asks, her voice cool and careful.

Sansa sighs, staring at the stone walls surrounding her.

“I wanted it to be the way it used to be. When Mother, and Father and Robb and Rickon were alive.” Sansa says. Confusion flickers over Arya’s face. That was not what she had been expecting. “ _That’s_ what I want. What I still want. What I wanted when we _took_ Winterfell, when Jon was named King in the North-”

“But you’re the Queen now.”

“I don’t want to be!” Sansa argues, frustration evident on her face. Arya stills. This is the most honest she’s ever seen her big sister. “I may be good at it, yes, but only because I learnt not to be a monster like Cersei! But if me being Queen in the North is what it takes, if having to consider _marrying Jon_ is what it takes to keep Winterfell ours, to keep it _our hom_ e like it used to be, before everything terrible happened, then I will! _Of course_ I will!”

“So you don’t want the power?” Arya scoffs - but deep down, it makes sense, and Arya wonders whether she was wrong to think that Sansa hadn’t changed.

“I told Bran to become the Lord of Winterfell. He refused. Rickon is dead, Jon was sailing to Dragonstone and you weren’t here. I was the only one left. I am the only one left.” Sansa says, her voice becoming more stern with each word. “Now that you’re here, do you want it? Do you want to be the Lady of Winterfell?”

“That’s not me-”

“Then it _has_ to be me. We can’t have Mother, or Father, or Robb come back and do it for us, and so if that’s what it takes to be safe, to keep our home and stay here, then _yes_ , Arya, I want the power. The only power I’ve _ever_ wanted, is to be able to look after myself, because if I learnt _anything_ after Father died, it’s that nobody else can do it for you!”

That strikes a chord in Arya’s chest - and suddenly, as she sees Sansa’s wide, blue eyes and the desperation on her expression as she silently begs for Arya to understand… Arya does. Because if Arya has learnt anything since escaping from King’s Landing, it’s that she’s the only person she can rely on to keep her safe.

“If you really believe that, how can you think marrying Jon will save the North?” Arya finally asks - but the accusation in her voice is gone and Sansa, for a moment, is so surprised that Arya is actually… _Asking_ , rather than condemning, that it takes her a moment to respond.

“Because I have to try.” Sansa tells her helplessly - but her voice is resolute, and Arya is surprised to find that she respects Sansa’s conviction. “Nobody can protect anyone. But Father protected the North, and we took back Winterfell by working with them and so even if the North can’t protect us, we can try and help them. And maybe that way, we have a better chance of surviving whatever else happens in the South."

Sansa seems to run out of breath after that - because it’s the most honest she’s ever been, and it’s with Arya, and the small piece of her heart she has left after all that she’s been through may just break if her family - what’s left of them - doesn’t believe her.

The seconds go by.

“It doesn’t make sense to me, you know.” Arya finally says… With a hesitant smile, one that causes Sansa to smile slightly in relief. “I’d rather just cut off some heads.”

Sansa laughs and Arya manages a small smile.

“It’s because you’re like Jon-” Sansa begins - but then she stops, and her and Arya’s smile fades.

Sansa just thinks she’s ruined it, the fragile peace they had been about to build, when Arya speaks.

“Let’s hope not.” She says quietly - and when Sansa looks up at her with a questioning gaze, Arya smirks slightly. “You might have to marry me next, if that’s true.”

For a moment, Sansa is too stunned to respond - and Arya’s smirk fades slightly, as she remembers who she’s speaking to. Not Lady Stark, or the Red Wolf - but her uppity older sister, always careful and prim and proper.

The gulf between them widens.

But then Sansa bursts into a peal of laughter, lighter and more genuine than the walls of Winterfell have heard in a long time, and Arya laughs too.

“You’re ridiculous.” Sansa says, shaking her head - but she’s still smiling broadly, and Arya grins, too. “You have the humour of a man.”

“You’re the one laughing, _Lady_ Stark.”

Sansa laughs some more, and soon, Arya joins her; loudly and truthfully, so much so, that they don’t even hear that gulf crumble shut between them.

  
*

**_King’s Landing_ **

Jon has to sneak into the Capital.

It’s better this way. Rumour is spreading fast throughout the Seven Kingdoms of his true heritage, of what is being heralded as his deception of the North; he’s not popular, and the ride from Winterfell to King’s Landing is a long and dangerous one. Jon, Sir Davos and Gendry have to avoid the Kingsroad, and if it weren’t for Gendry and Sir Davos’ ability to lie their way through any situation, hide behind their years’ worth of trading and the skill it brings, Jon is sure he would have been captured by now. Held for ransom, to the Dragon Queen.

That’s what the Lannisters did to his… _Cousins_.

It bothers Jon, greatly, to think of Arya and Sansa as something less than what he’s always considered them. _They’re still your family_ , he tells himself, over and over, every night before he goes to sleep - but the unpleasant feeling in his stomach states otherwise and although his brotherly affection for Arya never wanes, Jon can feel the difference eating its way through his heart for his feelings towards the Queen in the North… Despite his attempts to stifle them.

Despite their longer journey, Jon, Davos and Gendry ride hard towards the Capital; and by the time they reach their second moon under the stars, they have arrived.

It’s warmer in the South than Jon remembers from his last visit. He sheds his layers quickly as the winds change - and although reason tells him that there is no longer a need for the cloak that Sansa once so proudly presented him with, the Stark sigil proud on the leather straps, Jon finds himself running his thumb against the imprint every night before he sleeps.

They waste no time. Although Davos and Gendry laugh and talk over the fire, as they lay rest just beyond of the Capital’s borders, Jon finds himself… Restless. Jon had sent word to Tyrion of his plans to arrive, and, by morning, Jon finds himself smuggled into the Red Keep by loyal members of the Queensguard.

His heart thrums uncomfortably in his chest. His eyes seem drawn to the red and black banners that now hang from every wall, and when he hears the screech of his aunt’s dragons, he no longer cowers away in fear - instead, his fists tighten at his sides, and he strides forward, being led to Daenerys’ chambers.

He goes alone.

The heavy door leading into Daenerys’ chamber rattles as the guard opens it - and then, after months of hard riding and an ache in his shoulders and soreness in his thighs, he is there.

The door slams shut behind him, the noise echoing against the stone.

Jon walked slowly down the steps, into the room. It has changed. The last time he’d been in the royal bedchamber, there had been lions everywhere - after the Great War, after Queen Cersei’s betrayal, after Daenerys had first taken the city. The room was different now; filled with silver dragons instead of gold lions, filled with light colours and breezy fabrics, rather than the dark red and heavy tapestries in the Lannister style.

He finds her looking out across the city from her balcony, watching as Rhaegal screeches over the scaffolding surrounding the Sept of Baelor. His chest tightens. Rhaegal, named after… His father. Daenerys’ brother, his real father, the one whose blood runs through Jon’s veins - alongside Lyanna’s.

It’s the first time Jon and Daenerys have seen each other since finding out the truth.

And then she turns.

Her pale white hair glints in the sunlight, as it bounces off of her creamy skin. She wears a dress of pale blue silk, and it hugs at her curves.

“Your Grace.” Jon manages to rasp, his throat dry and hoarse.

Daenerys nods… And Jon feels the weight lifted from his chest slightly, knowing their formal greeting is now over - and it’s just as Jon thinks this, that Daenerys strides comfortably towards him… And into his arms.

“I missed you.” She breathes, wrapping her arms underneath his to pull him close… and Jon freezes, unable to move, as Daenerys cups his face in her hands, running her thumbs over his scars. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

That’s when she reaches up on her tiptoes, so that she may press her lips to his - but Jon’s hands, that he suddenly finds to be brushing against the curves of her waist, roots her back to the ground.

Jon swallows guiltily as Daenerys looks up at him in surprise… And clenches his jaw in shame, as he steps backwards.

For a moment - just a moment - hurt flashes in her eyes, and Jon wishes he could comfort her. Apologise, tell her he’s being stupid, take it all back.

But it’s too late - and Daenerys’ face becomes cold and regal, as she regards him with disdain.

“Aunt.” Jon manages to say, not quite meeting her eyes.

She says nothing - and Jon continues to create the gap between them, not stopping until the small seat at the edge of her bed presses into the back of his legs.

At first, they say something. But, realising Jon has no plans to close the distance between them, or even offer an explanation for it… Daenerys straightens, and Jon feels the charge between them transform.

“Why did you come here?” Daenerys asks, her head held high. Jon wishes he could avoid her gaze… But honour won’t allow it, and so he forces himself to face her.

“I’ve come to wager for peace in the North, Your Grace.” Jon tells her. Daenerys inhales, breathing into the fury that quickly becomes apparent in her expression. “I’d hoped my _aunt_ -”

“ _Aunt_?” Daenerys repeats. Jon falls silent, and his decency commands him to cast his eyes downward at the floor. “Look at me, Jon.” Daenerys commands. “ _Look at me_! Is that all I am now? Your _aunt_?”

“We are tied by blood, Your Grace.”

“So you’ve come to force my hand?” Daenerys demands. Jon’s eyebrows furrow - _no_ \- but words escape him. “Is that why you’re here? To demand independence for the North, or take my throne, as the true Targaryen heir?”

Jon almost scoffs. _True_.

“Of _course_ not.” Jon says, shaking his head. Even the thought seems ridiculous to him. “How - how can you even _think_ such a thing-”

“The North is one of the Seven Kingdoms. I came to rule the Seven Kingdoms.” Daenerys continues sternly. “The North will not be granted independence, I made that clear to you in Dragonstone, while you were still their King-”

“Yes, but I’m not their King anymore.” Jon reminds her. “I’m no longer their King, because I was found to be Rhaegar Targaryen’s heir-”

“So you do want to take the throne.” Daenerys’ face suddenly seems pale, and it hurts Jon, for Daenerys to think he could suddenly be so… _Greedy._

“ _No_ , I want to know my family will be safe!” Jon says frustratedly, his voice rising ever so slightly. He regrets the outburst almost immediately. Daenerys controls her emotions - she’s good at it -, but Jon knows that she’s having to, and suddenly wishes he shared one of Sansa’s best abilities: the ability to speak kindly, without diluting the truth. “I may be a Targaryen by birth, but I was raised as a Stark.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrow.

“A Stark bastard.” She corrects.

“Yes, fine, a Stark _bastard_ , but a Stark, nonetheless.” Jon sighs. “The North will fight for independence. Too much has happened since my f- since Lord Eddard died-”

“Lord Eddard’s execution was at the hands of the Lannisters, _not_ the Targaryens.” She interrupts sharply. “I will not have that placed on my conscience. You are a _Targaryen_. We have won the Seven Kingdoms, _we_ did, and Lyanna Stark’s blood runs through your veins, too, if you want the North, it is your _right_ -”

“ _Right_?” Jon laughs. “Just as you say, I am a _Targaryen_. I may have won back Winterfell but my ancestors, _our_ ancestors, burnt and tortured the Starks within these very walls-”

“We are not my father!”

“No, we are not, and that means we cannot deny the Starks the right to their home!” Jon shouts. Daenerys no longer wears a regal expression - instead, she looks surprised, betrayed. “The North belongs to the Starks-”

“Then we will take it _for_ you!” Daenerys steps forward then, with wide eyes and an unspoken promise that makes Jon feel like even more of a traitor than he already does. “We will take it for you, your birthright, with _fire and blood_ -”

“That’s not my way.” Jon says sadly - and Daenerys reels, swallowing loudly as she looks at this man, her _lover_ , as if he were a stranger. “That’s not the Northern way, it’s not the _Stark_ way.”

“The Starks won’t bend the knee. It is their own stubborn-headedness, despite the loyalty our houses once shared.” Daenerys tells him bitterly. Jon bows his head - he cannot, in good faith, disagree. He told her as much himself, when they first met at Dragonstone. “You said so yourself, they remember only my father.”

“It’s not just that.” Jon explains, grimacing. Daenerys raises an eyebrow, daring him to continue - and if he were any less a man, he may have been scared. It’s only because he’s sensible that he still reminds himself to be wary. “The North lost so much after Robert’s Rebellion. And then during Robb’s, and then when we took Winterfell back from the Boltons-”

“What is your point?” Daenerys mutters impatiently.

Jon steps forward.

“ _I’m_ the reason for that war.” As he speaks, he hears Arya’s voice in his head - her bitterness in the crypts, as she asked if Targaryen traditions would be forced upon the North. He sees it in the faces of the villagers, the household staff, everyone that once knew him. “The Starks only _went_ to war because they thought Lyanna taken-”

“Lannister propaganda.” She huffs.

“That may be.” Jon agrees, hoping so patiently for her to understand. “But either way, that makes me the reason for that war. Whenever they look at me…” Jon struggles to find the words.

“What?” Daenerys demands harshly. Jon swallows. “What?”

“- they see the losses they made. And how it was all for nothing, because there was a Targaryen heir all along.” Jon explains. It’s the only way he can understand it - Arya’s anger, Sansa’s silence. He’s a part of that now, a part of that history. A part of the house the North rallied against. He may be Lyanna Stark’s true-born son, but he is also a Targaryen - and the struggles of the Northern houses at the hands of one are difficult to forget.

It’s changed him. Changed how he’s seen. He’s a Stark by blood and a Targaryen by right - and Jon feels that, only out of respect to Lord Eddard, is he still breathing.

It’s so hard to describe, but he so desperately wants - _needs_ \- Daenerys to understand. He’s not one of them anymore - and it’s shaken them, after they were named his King. He left them, to forge an alliance with the Dragon Queen, in order to better arm them during the Great War… But he took too long to return. Suddenly, all of that takes on a new meaning - and although Jon likes to think those that know him best still trust him… He doesn’t know that. And he can’t expect them to.

He doesn’t even know it himself.

“You belong,” Daenerys begins, walking slowly toward him - and although Jon glances away, Daenerys knows his eyes will be forced to fall on her, how magnetism always draws them close. “To the greatest dynasty the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen. You should not be ashamed because a few  _Northerners_ -”

“Those Northerners are my family. My kin.” Jon says warningly - but his voice does nothing to intimidate the Mother of Dragons, and she stands to face him, unaffected by how he towers over her delicate frame.

“ _I_ am your family. _We_ are the family that matters.” She goes to put a hand to his face, but Jon recoils - and she ignores it, her hand falling to his arms and pulling him close. “We are the only ones left. And the way I feel about you-” Daenerys bursts into a smile, a full, happy smile, beaming with unadulterated joy. “We’re _drawn_ to each other, Jon! We can make things better, we can be so much better, we can undo the wrongs that my father did-”

“My loyalty is to my house, Your Grace.” Jon says gently. Daenerys nods, smiling, cupping his face in her hands. “And I have always belonged to House Stark.”

Daenerys’ hand falls away along with her joy.

“I can only secure the Iron Throne for our house through male lineage. You are the only male Targaryen left.”

“I need to be sure my family is safe-”

“I am your family.” Daenerys’ lips curls in anger and Jon sighs. There’s no more avoiding it.

“It’s wrong.” He mumbles.

At first, he’s not sure Daenerys has heard - but then she scoffs with disbelief and moves away from him, and when he finally looks up, she stares as if looking at someone under some kind of spell.

“The _Lannisters_ weren’t considered wrong, and they _imitated_ our history-”

“And created the likes of Joffrey, in the image of the Mad King.” Jon snaps. Daenerys shakes her head, refusing to listen. “Marriage upon marriage within family-”

“Westerosi culture has allowed for inter-family marriage since the dawn of time.” Daenerys retorts. Her fists are balled at her sides, and her cheeks are pink with rage. Jon remembers when they were pink with something else - pleasure, happiness. It feels so far away now. “And we are not our ancestors! We are not the Lannisters, we are… We are a man and a woman, who have lain together before-”

“And if I’d known what we were, I wouldn’t have!” Jon shouts, the loudest he’s been so far - and he sees it, how Daenerys’ face fills with betrayal. “Do you know how guilty I feel? How much _shame_ I feel? I thought I was alone in the world-”

“You’re not, that is what I’m _trying_ to tell you, we’re not _alone_ anymore-” Daenerys tries to say - but Jon ignores her, shaking his head.

“- and then I find that I _do_ have family, real family, that I belong somewhere and then I-” Jon motions helplessly to her, her body, her voice, all of the things that muddle his mind and pull at the bottom of his stomach whenever he thinks of it. “We can’t be both. We cannot be family and kin - and it doesn’t _matter_ if our ancestors did differently, because I didn’t even know they were mine until now!”

“So what is it you want, Jon?” Daenerys sighs, throwing her arms into the air. The rings on her slender fingers sparkle in the sunlight and Jon pushes the memories out from his mind - memories of how those fingers traced the scars on his chest, dug into his arse as he’d moved against her. “You spurn your _aunt_ , a woman you’ve only just come to know for what? An alliance in the North? With the one you call _sister_?” Daenerys shakes her head, disgust plain on her sculpted features. “Perhaps we are both wrong. Perhaps your Targaryen blood is more potent than both the Starks and I give you credit for.”

Jon’s temper immediately flares at the accusation. The venom in Daenerys’ voice is… Sickening to him.

“I bled, and fought, and lost to win back Winterfell.” He’s almost growling - and although Daenerys watches him, her mouth frowning at his weakness, they both remember the last time he growled like that… And are aware of the bed behind him. “I am here not because I want an alliance, I’m here so that a choice doesn’t need to be made.”

“Between your aunt and your sister?”

“Between two Queens, _Your Grace_.” Jon is almost spitting now, struggling to keep his temper under control. Daenerys should understand it. It’s the most carnal part of him, the fury of a dragon, and it’s something Jon hopes he never has to truly face. “Sansa has been named the Queen in the North-”

“That sounds like an act of war.” Daenerys threatens - and Jon loses all patience.

“ _Yes_ , it probably does to _you_ , but Sansa has agreed to calm the North until I have attempted to wager peace-”

“So now the wolf gives the dragon _permission_?” Daenerys laughs, once and humourlessly. Her voice drips with sarcasm. “How kind.”

“I’m not making a choice between you.” Jon is proud of himself - he says it as evenly as he can, given all of the feelings he’s trying to keep at bay, threatening to spill onto the surface. _It’s being here, in this city_. The air is like poison, fuelling all of the parts of Jon that he tries to ignore, that he _does_ ignore, to make himself better. Sadness, at how the man who raised him died here. Fury, at how the Red Wedding had likely been planned in rooms like this - if not this one. Confusion, at how potent his rage has become since finding out he was a dragon. Fear, knowing that the throne below them someplace had once been meant for him. “That’s why I’m here, so I don’t have to _make_ a choice-”

“You always have to make a choice.” Daenerys snaps, rolling her eyes. “ _Always_. We chose to trust each other in Dragonstone. We chose to come to King’s Landing, I _chose_ to take the Capitol, you _chose_ to be King in the North-”

Jon shakes his head. “It was never something I wanted.”

“What about the other choices you made? The ones that you wanted to make?” Daenerys says softly, stepping towards him, fire in her eyes. “Taking me in the cellar of the Red Keep that first time, against the wall and amongst the dragon skulls.” Jon swallows noisily. He doesn’t want to remember that. He doesn’t want to remember how animal he became, how they were both lost in pleasure, how he’d never felt like that with a woman before and somehow knew he never would. Daenerys steps forward, ignoring how Jon averts his gaze. “Spilling your seed into me, dripping down my thighs. Our bodies warm against each other.” Jon closes his eyes, wishing the memories away. “Didn’t you _want_ those things? _Fight_  to make them happen?” Their chests are both heaving now, Jon’s eyes trained on how her curves rise and settle with each breath. Her voice is seductive, drawing him in. He remembers those curves, misses them almost. _No. No, you don’t want this…_ “Or did you do the same with Sansa, bedding her as you made more promises you didn’t intend to keep?”

The hardness of her voice, in comparison with its low lilt just moments before - it jolts him. Reminds Jon of where he is and his purpose, pulling him away from memories of the past.

“Don’t speak about her like that.” It would seem as if he were begging - the softness of his voice, the grimace as he speaks - but Daenerys knows him better than that. She knows it’s disgust, because he cares… Cares for someone who isn’t her, and that cuts her deeper than she thought she could be cut, after already losing so much in one lifetime.

They stare at one another for a few moments, so many unspoken things lingering between them…. Yet still, the silence is deafening.

“The North will not be granted independence.” Daenerys repeats. Jon stares at the floor, feeling… Disappointed. After all they've seen, after all they've experienced - he'd hoped for more than this. They've already understood each other in so much more. “And those who defy me will be executed for treason.”

Jon nods resignedly to himself. The threat of execution is the final blow. _So it’s come to this._

Jon considers apologising. Explaining. But words cannot further explain what he already has, and any apology now would be… Insincere. Jon is not sorry enough to change his mind, and he knows that Daenerys isn't either - and so an apology would just be… Words. Ones neither one of them would believe in.

So, with a heavy sigh, Jon turns towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Daenerys’ voice remains regal, but there is a vulnerability to it. One that makes Jon’s honour scowl in disappointment at himself.

He hesitates where he stands, his hand on the door.

“Home.” He replies honestly.

“And what if I forbid it?” Daenerys says quietly, watching him carefully from beneath her eyelashes… And they both know she is not speaking as a queen, but as the lover that he is tyrant to deny.

It is because of this, that Jon does not do her the injustice of ignoring the seriousness of her question. It's the only method of apology he can think to give.

“Will you?”

Daenerys hesitates.

“Yes.” She finally says, standing tall. Jon frowns, guilt and shame flowing over him once more, as he sees how she tries to swallow back her hurt. Daenerys suddenly feels… Alone. So alone, and she feels a stab of hatred at the world for it, for feeling as if this is some sort of retribution for how she once abandoned her own lover, so long ago - Daario, still her loyal servant in Meereen. “As your Queen, I demand you stay in King’s Landing. What do you say to that?”

Jon manages a roguish smile - and for a second, just one moment, Daenerys’ heart rises in the hope that all will be well.

“I’d say I’ll honour you, Your Grace, with words I haven't spoken before.” He confesses - before his smile fades slightly. Surprise flickers across her face, unsure of what to expect. “I’d say I’m sorry. But you’re not my Queen.”

It feels as if something is… Lifted from his shoulders. He feels lighter, but the price of that, he knows, is that something has changed - because Daenerys is not his Queen, as a Northerner.

There is a power in finally saying it aloud - a power Jon had never expected, and it takes him more by surprise than it strengthens him. He is… Changed. He is changed because, for the first time, he is accepting his birthright.

She is not his Queen, because he is a Targaryen prince.

Acceptance is an odd feeling. It doesn’t quite feel real - but it is, and he knows it. He is not just a Stark, and not just a Targaryen. He is both. And perhaps that'll do.

“But she is?” Technically a question, though Jon does not hear it. He shakes his head. No. No, that’s not quite true either. “Will we see each other again?” Daenerys shakes her head slightly. “Beyond the battlefield?” She adds, her voice tired.

“I should think so.” Jon smiles… But Daenerys cannot. Her stomach already twists at this goodbye, so soon after their greeting. “After all, we have a house to restore.”

Daenerys’ eyes… Glisten slightly, in the light, the only indication that she is moved. Jon’s chest hurts to see it.

“We do?” She asks.

Jon nods.

“Aye.” He promises. “We do.”

Daenerys takes a breath. Holds it.

“And now?”

Jon shrugs slightly. “What I’ve always done. What I can. Help secure the North.”

“Through marriage?” Her voice is strained, and it is not lost on Jon that her words are becoming less and less. He knows why. He just hopes to give her the dignity of her choice, rather than talk about it.

Which is why he does not do her the dishonour of joking her question away, in the way he wishes he could.

“If that’s what it takes.” He admits.

Daenerys nods slowly… And Jon hesitates, unsure of what to do next. He has to leave. Before Daenerys’ wrath takes over, before news of the North’s new Queen reaches their enemies.

“Say goodbye to the dragons for me.” Jon finally says.

“You can say it yourself.” Daenerys’ voice is… Distant now, and so are her eyes. “I wish you good fortune… Nephew.”

She doesn’t want to - but Daenerys sees the heaviness of his silent sigh, and wonders if maybe, just maybe, disregarding her for the sake of his house - the one to which Daenerys does not belong - is not as easy as he is allowing her to believe.

“Thank you… Daenerys.” Jon responds.

It’s almost enough to give her hope again - but she cannot allow for hope to walk away from her, so she turns, and grips the wooden chair by her side until she hears the creak of the door open… And its clang, as it closes.

She breathes. Slowly. Inwards, and then out.

She hears the screech of Rhaegal in the distance, and Daenerys reminds herself to be strong. For her children. For her kingdom.

Silently, as she swallows back her emotions, Daenerys walks back out to the balcony, King’s Landing stretched before her - and with a small shrug of her shoulders, returns her attention to her rule.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay!
> 
> So, smutty stuff lies ahead (?). I'm not very good at this stuff, and this is the first scene of its kind I've ever written, so please be kind...
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**_Winterfell_ **

  
“You look tired.”

“I _am_ tired." Sansa mutters, Arya easily falling into step beside her as they walk through Winterfell's winding halls. “You saw the Lady Mormont arrive this morning.”

“And?” Arya asks. “Don’t you like her?”

“It’s not that I don’t like her, I think the problem is that she doesn’t seem to like _me_.” Sansa huffs, as they begin to ascend one of the spiralling staircases. Arya hides a smile. Her big sister has never enjoyed unpopularity. “She declared for House Stark before the Battle of the Bastards before most of the other houses did, _and_ she was the first to name Jon King in the North. She’s always been one of our greatest allies-”

“ _Our_?” Arya repeats shrewdly. As they reach the top of the stairs, Sansa looks down at her sister, nodding. “Not _your_? She doesn’t support you as Queen in the North?”

“That’s what I’ve been _trying_ to work out all day.” Sansa huffs, pushing into the Lady’s Chamber. Arya follows her - and though there was once a time when Arya would have hesitated, now she does not. Since Gendry’s intervention, the Stark sisters have found themselves… Drawn to each other. Bran does little but spend time sitting out in the Godswood these days, and given the state of North, Sansa finds herself relying on her little sister in a way she never imagined she would. She likes to think the same goes for Arya, as well. 

“So she’s avoiding swearing allegiance?”

“Not _avoiding_ …” Sansa sighs, shrugging off her pelt. It is a cool and pleasant evening, and dinner is being prepared. Shortly, they will both be expected downstairs to entertain their guests. There is a feast, in honour of Lady Mormont’s arrival. “Not exactly. She wants to understand the terms of her allegiance, which I could understand if she wasn’t so… _Specific_ about it.”

“But you like specifics.” Arya frowns… Before glancing at the fire, and remembering her parents for a moment, and all she’s lost. She quickly shakes it away. Seeing the discomfort on Sansa’s face, Arya nods. “… Oh. You mean with Jon.”

Sansa sits at the edge of her bed - and although it feels as if she collapses from exhaustion and frustration, to Arya, she sits regally, ever the lady.

“I can’t tell Lady Mormont the terms of an alliance I myself don’t even understand. It’s hard enough to speak to her without Sir Davos, who seems to have a way of speaking to her without offending her, a skill _I_ seem to be lacking in.” Sansa rolls her eyes. “Jon has promised to talk to the Queen in the South. What if all of this talk is for nothing?” 

Arya’s eyes narrow. For a moment, it seemed that Sansa would say something else - and Arya wants to hear it.

“There’s more.” Arya says curiously. It’s a statement, rather than a question. “What is it?”

Sansa shakes her head… But feeling Arya’s eyes, unmoving and trained on her, she gives in.

“What if they were all too quick to name me Queen in the North?” Sansa asks tiredly - and before Arya can speak, Sansa quickly continues. “It’s not about power, contrary to what you may think.” Arya raises an eyebrow at the quick snipe. “I… What if I’m the last Stark to hold Winterfell? But I’m so _bad_ at it, that they-”

“They chose you as their Queen.”

“They chose me because they didn't think there _was_ anyone else.” Sansa says dryly. “The same way they approached me when Jon was gone, and they were scared of a lack of leadership.”

“That’s not true.” Arya says quickly - but Sansa looks directly at her sister, in a manner that silently lets Arya know that she can sense her falseness.

“You didn’t feel that way then.” Sansa reminds her, proving Arya right. Arya tenses - and Sansa sighs, temporarily covering her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, I know that we’re beyond that now. I’m just… Unsure.”

Arya stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

“Well, I'm no expert, but from what I hear, just the right amount of doubt is healthy in a ruler.” She mumbles. Sansa manages a small, sad smile as her hands fall away. Arya has never exactly been one for comfort. “I should check on the feast preparations.” Arya coughs. She finds such things dull, but it’s better than just standing there.

“You know they’ll refer to you as Lady Stark at the feast?" Sansa smirks slightly, raising an eyebrow. 

Arya scowls, before turning to leave.

“Some things never change!” Sansa calls after her, smiling. She knows Arya remembers - of the last feast they had as a family at Winterfell, to welcome the Gods-awful Queen and Joffrey alongside Prince Robert. It’s a surprisingly pleasant memory, given the awful cycle of events it began.

The door clangs shut behind Arya and Sansa sighs deeply to herself, staring at the four walls surrounding her. The Boltons scraped away anything that was _Stark_ , during their… Occupation - but every now and then, Sansa feels them... Her parents.

But then she remembers why and how they are gone, and the moment becomes infinitely less sweet.

It’s as she remembers that very fact, that Sansa groans, and wishes she could collapse on her bed - but she cannot, for it would mess up her hair.

She shakes her head at herself, as her words echo back to her: _some things never change_.

 

*

 

**_King’s Landing_ **

 

“You know, you don’t look like a Clovis.”

Gendry looks up at Sir Davos knowingly - and Davos hides his smirk in reply. Even after this long, Tyrion is oblivious to Gendry’s true heritage.

“Well, you don’t look like a Lannister.”

“But I _know_ I'm a Lannister.” Tyrion says shrewdly. “I don’t know that you’re a Clovis.”

“What’s a Clovis meant to look like, then?” Gendry asks, pretending to be offended.

“I don’t know.” Tyrion frowns, shrugging. “But not like that.”

“And if I said a Lannister isn’t meant to look like a dwarf?”

Sir Davos stills, as Tyrion raises his eyebrows at Gendry’s comment.

“I’d say…” Tyrion thinks for a moment. “That you probably would have gotten along with my father.”

Tyrion does not see the dry look shared between Gendry and Sir Davos.

They sit in one of the Red Keep’s many courtyards, surrounded by fine wine and sunshine. Gendry finds it almost funny. If only they knew…

“There you are!” Tyrion remarks some time later - and Gendry glances up to see Jon, somehow surprised to find the three of them sunning themselves. “Where have you been?” 

“I was just saying goodbye to the dragons.” Jon tells him with a polite nod. “But we’ll be on our way now-”

“Nonsense!” Tyrion interrupts - and Gendry can’t help but agree with him. His buttocks are still sore from sitting on something other than a horse. “You’ve come all of this way! Dine with us, at least.”

Jon hesitates.

“I… I’ve already informed the Queen of our departure.” He replies.

Davos raises his eyebrows. For a moment there, Jon almost sounded… _Proper_. And as far as Davos is concerned, that means something is very wrong in the world.

“I’ll inform the Queen of otherwise.” Tyrion shrugs, leading Jon out into the sunlight. “It’s not everyday a man can say he dined with a Targaryen Queen and Prince, with their three dragons flying someplace above you.”

Jon frowns. “I wouldn’t call myself a Targaryen prince.”

Tyrion stops before him, raising an eyebrow.

“You also said you weren’t a Stark, multiple times. Yet here you are, the true-born son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.” Tyrion says pleasantly. Jon says nothing, unsure if there _is_ anything to say. “Now, I’m more concerned with what you say you are _not_. Perhaps if I stay close, your good fortune will brush against me, and I will wake up tomorrow and find I am a _real_ boy!”

Despite Jon’s low mood… He manages to grin at that. He’s always enjoyed Tyrion’s dark humour - ever since the day he’d told Jon of his desire to _piss off the end of the world_. 

“Oh, and one more thing.” Tyrion pauses, from where he has been leading Jon to his seat. “The boy’s name-” Jon follows Tyrion’s gaze to Gendry, who glances up at being mentioned. “- is his name truly Clovis?”

Jon laughs, silently grateful to his friend for helping him forget his troubles - even if only temporarily.

. . . 

Dinner is uneventful. Daenerys does not dine with them - she only comes to bid Sir Davos and Gendry safe passage home, and gives Jon a curt nod. Nobody questions this - they all assume, and rightly so, that the two Targaryens have discussed their matters in private. Jon does not correct the assumption that their _matters_ are limited to the personal. 

Jon hides his smile as Missandei introduces Grey Worm to Sir Davos, and is pleasantly surprised by Daenerys’ general. He knows she is in safe hands - and it surprisingly… Refreshing, for he and Grey Worm to briefly discuss the politics of the North, without Jon’s fear of judgement. Grey Worm asks to learn, and Jon answers truthfully - and for a short while, his life is no longer as complicated as it has become.

 

*

 

**_Winterfell_**  
  


Sansa is exhausted by the time the feast is over.

It lasts late into the night, and Sansa is surprised to find Lady Mormont more than agreeable once she has had some ale. Her disposition may be harsh and unrefined, but it is… Refreshing to Sansa, a welcome change from the diabolical politics of King’s Landing after all of these years; and although, come her return to the Lady’s Chambers, Sansa is no closer to her answer regarding the extent of Lady Mormont’s loyalty… She knows that, for now at the least, the Mormonts offer their support until Jon’s return.

All the same, Sansa’s very bones seem to ache by the time she makes her way up the chilly stone staircase. She is pleased to find a fire is already waiting for her, crackling loudly and burning bright, when she steps inside. 

Sansa says little as she goes about her evening routine; she undresses and is bathed by her maids, trustworthy girls who even Brienne approves of, and settles under the furs of the bed, ready for the warm embrace of sleep.

… And yet, as the sky continues to darken in the sky and the roar of the fire settles into quiet crackles and low embers, Sansa finds herself wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. 

For not the first time, Sansa finds the Lady’s Chamber uncomfortably large; down to the large bed, the tall walls, even the furs. Underneath them, she is too warm; over them, she is too cold, too exposed, and it reminds her of drafty nights in Ramsay's bedroom, locked away until he’d return to hurt her again.

Outside, Sansa can only hear the guards laughing quietly between themselves - no more raucous, drunken laughter. Winterfell is almost silent. She sighs to herself.

With a slight raise of her eyebrows, Sansa remembers some advice given to her from a local… _Woman of disrepute_ , once Winterfell had been retaken. Brienne had found her. Sansa had been determined to find a way to wash Ramsay from her skin, to not rely on another brute to do it for her. Sansa’s knowledge of Littlefinger’s business had gave her some idea of who to ask - and so she’d given Brienne the task of finding someone who could offer counsel, on… Recovering after such matters.

Sansa idly wonders how exactly Brienne _did_ find someone. She's still surprised she did. Not because Sansa has ever had reason to doubt Brienne’s loyalties, or ability to complete a task, but… Well, the advice offered was hardly regarding a subject Brienne, as a knight, could comfortably discuss with most. 

Sansa had taken the woman’s advice, fed to her through notes and private raven-scrolls. As Sansa thinks back on it, she recalls on only having done it once - and although it was… Helpful, to distance herself, the pleasure she had been promised had never come.

Bored, Sansa wonders whether it’s worth another try.

It’s… Sinful, and Sansa feels shamefaced to be thinking such a thing in the room that was once her Mother and Father’s; but that is as a daughter. As a young woman, Sansa grimaces, as she forces herself to acknowledge that _much_ has happened within the walls she finds herself in.

Namely, her conception.

The woman’s advice was for Sansa to… Please herself, in such a manner that would not be the cause for rumour and dishonour, but would also allow Sansa to separate her body’s scars from Ramsay’s touch - however ghostly. 

Sansa chews on her lip, warring with herself. Should she try again? The woman promised she’d be… Tired, afterwards, if she completed her task correctly. Tired, but peaceful. And she promised a pleasure that would overtake her.

Ever since King’s Landing, Sansa had little trust in _anything_ that caused pleasure so great, but… She is not in King’s Landing. And she is no longer at the hands of the men she once was. 

She was tired, and embarrassed, and bored, the last time she tried. Her mind had been buzzing with all there was to do; securing Jon’s rule as King in the North, repairing the damage done to Winterfell since her family’s absence, the _relief_ of knowing Ramsay’s body was still rotting amongst the hounds.

“You’re being _stupid_.” Sansa murmurs to herself, squeezing her eyes shut. As if the walls may pass judgement.

At first, she can’t even remember what to _do_ \- and there is nothing to compare it to, no memory to pull from, as Sansa has never truly experienced sexual desire. As a child, she sought out… Knights, gentlemen, in her dreams. Her heart would flutter at the thought of her hands innocently running through their hair, or of their sweet scent as they would walk past.

Since then, Sansa has learnt the cost of such actions: misery.

_Slowly_ , one of the raven-scrolls had read. _Slowly, how you’d wished to be touched. As if you were your own lover_.

Sansa can’t even remember what she’d once imagined, or even if she ever did. She was raised as a high-born lady… And when that dignity was stripped from her, the only time Sansa ever thought of… _Intimate_ relations, was in fear that rumours of Joffrey’s brutality would become her truth.

"Try." She tells herself irritably and, feeling an uncomfortable heat burn through her that has nothing to do with pleasure or the fire, Sansa takes a deep breath… And slowly places her hand underneath the furs.

She feels _stupid_ , placing her hand underneath her shift and dragging her nails gently up her thigh - past the marks left by Ramsay on her ivory skin and…

Sansa’s hand rests on the inside of her leg. What is she _doing_? There are better ways to fall asleep than this! 

… _But this is about more than tonight’s sleep_ , a voice tells her. This is, strictly speaking, not true. Were Sansa to walk around the castle, the chills would chase sleep away even further; a larger fire will only give her a headache and sweet tea would only disturb the sleep of others. _If you are to be married, to_ anyone, _you should know yourself. You must know yourself_.

It’s… A fair argument, even if it’s one Sansa does not want to have. But it is the truth. Marriage is imminent - whether that be with Jon (Sansa tries not to think of it), or anyone else. Even… Tyrion, perhaps, if Lady Mormont’s implications amount to some truth. She had hinted at Sansa’s previous marriage, the one to Tyrion - and had asked after Sansa’s attempts to disregard it, just this evening.

And although Sansa had been aware of it, it had not been a serious consideration until now.

“You are Sansa Stark of Winterfell. The Queen in the North.” Sansa tells herself resolutely, her voice strangely loud, even when only a whisper. “You do not need anyone but yourself.”

So, with a deep breath, and a guilty, twisting stomach, Sansa continues to move her hand northward.

It’s odd, at first. By the time her fingertips begin to brush against the coarse hair, Sansa feels _humiliated_ \- wanton, sinful, the very opposite to her education as a high-born. But she forces herself to go on. If the advice doesn’t work… Then nobody else will know, and she can forget such stupidity ever occurred to her.

And if it does…

Sansa chews on her lip as, tentatively, she runs the tip of her finger along delicate skin.

She is… Surprised.

It’s a pleasant feeling, _comforting_ almost, but there is no sudden joy. No burst of delight. Certainly not the ecstasy with which Sansa has heard such things being discussed.

All the same, Sansa continues. It’s a relaxing feeling and perhaps a steady rhythm will help her sleep - but as she repeats that same, one movement, Sansa finds herself frustrated. Is there something wrong with her? Did her… _Advisor_ lie? She wouldn’t have _known_ she was advising Lady Stark of Winterfell. Had it all been some cruel, faithless jest?

_Once more_ , Sansa pushes herself. _Try once more, properly. And then you may give up_.

Sansa focuses her mind, remembering. _As if you were your own lover_ …

_Perhaps_ , she muses to herself. _I should imagine a lover first_.

She allows her finger to explore slightly, considering this.

Whilst it’s true that some faces immediately spring to mind, they are the faces of Sansa’s past, and she easily dismisses them. Sir Loras, with his boyish good looks and charming smile; but he is dead now, perished from the wildfire that destroyed the Sept of Baelor at Cersei’s command. Somehow, it feels wrong to bring a dead man into Sansa’s sin… Especially a man with so many of his own. Anyway, she was a child when she used to look upon Sir Loras; and she is far away from the naive little girl she once was, Cersei Lannister’s _little dove_.

There is Tyrion, but Sansa frowns, remembering their drunken wedding and the humiliation they both endured; and that reminds her of Joffrey, and his cruelty, and then, with a frown, Sansa cannot help but remember the others; Littlefinger, the many cruel, faceless men of the Kingsguard, the Hound...

Sansa’s eyes fly open and she shakes her head, squinting at the ceiling. Perhaps not a… Specific person. The movement of her finger has changed slightly, massaging a pattern deeper into the folds of her skin, the…  _Comfort_ from the feeling intensifying; though her skin chafes slightly against her hair and the sharpness of her nails.

Sansa tries to picture it in her mind - the man of her dreams, the man she would consider a worthy lover. It’s… Difficult. She finds herself trying to piece together fragments of dreams from a lifetime ago, from childhood and naivety, with the woman she knows herself to be now.

_Soft lips_ , a voice tells her. Sansa nods slightly to herself in approval. Ramsay never had soft lips - though Sansa refuses to think of him _now_ , as she tries to heal. Yes. Soft, full lips…

The pleasing feeling continues and, as if on instinct, Sansa’s one, gentle finger is replaced by two.

Sansa raises her eyebrows slightly.

Allowing her eyes to drift close, Sansa decides to abandon any further worries. _You have to try_.

She imagines those soft lips - watching them, feeling them pressed against her own. Her fingers continue to move.

Soft lips - against her mouth, against her neck; strong arms engulfing her, keeping her warm. Not leaving her exposed, like… Before.

Her imagination fails her then. She can’t imagine a man being soft and strong, kind and lustful. It is the very opposite of her experiences of men, noble and rogues alike, thus far.

Sansa redirects her mind again. _What makes you happy?_ She asks herself. _What makes you feel safe_?

Her fingers continue as she thinks, only supplying a gentle, almost unnoticeable, thrum. Being at home makes her feel safe; feeling powerful makes her feel safe. Knowing she can protect those she loves makes her feel safe and happy, as does being home, here in Winterfell, without monsters attempting to chase her out.

Sansa thinks of the day of the Battle of the Bastards - how the wind behind the Knights of the Vale had roared past her, how the sound of hooves against the dirt and the cry of their men had made her feel powerful. How she’d watched Ramsay, almost _felt_ his surety of victory disappear; how she’d sat, tall and proud, and, perhaps for the first time, been the Red Wolf of Winterfell.

Her fingers begin to move in circles, harder now, and Sansa feels her body force itself further into the mattress to seek out more pressure.

Victory. Control. Triumph. They all made her feel safe that day.

Her eyes fly open as, closer to her centre, Sansa finds… Wetness.

She pauses, confused. At first, she thinks she’s soiled herself - but logic tells her she can’t have and as she recalls those dark, gruesome nights in Ramsay’s bedchamber, she remembers the… Stickiness, that she would be left with. That he would deliver.

Sansa stares, puzzled, at the ceiling. Is it possible, for… Ladies? Something… Similar?

Ramsay threatens to enter her mind once again, but Sansa pushes him away, concentrating with all of her might on her imagination.

_A man_ , she repeats like a prayer, desperate to keep her nightmares at bay. _With soft lips and strong arms… Someone who can share this with me. Someone who understands what it means to be powerless, and overcome it_.

It’s as Sansa muses this, that her fingertips brush that wetness again - and her lips part in surprise, her eyes fluttering shut, as her fingertips… _Spread_ it - and the chafing, the discomfort of skin against skin and nail, lessens.

She pauses, her eyes wide.

Slowly, gently, _curiously_ , she begins to continue. The fire crackles quietly and, with the added help of her own body, Sansa’s fingers now begin to move… _Smoothly_ , against her skin, and Sansa takes a slight, soft intake of breath as a small thrill suddenly shoots its way up her spine.

She sees it, vaguely, as her eyes flutter closed. A shape of a man, strong and soft, his hands holding her - rubbing her arms gently, burning her even through her cloak, overlooking Winterfell below as a cold breeze blows.

It’s timed perfectly with another shot of warmth - but instead of shooting up her spine again, it settles at the base of her stomach, ebbing backwards and forwards as if they were tangled in some form of game.

And upon feeling that, it's as if the plain canvas of her imagination is splayed in colour.

A man, strong and soft, with kind eyes and firm hands that guide her. Here, in this room - on these furs. Sansa breathes deeply as the dampness becomes wetter, heavier, more and more slick with each movement, and a pleasant… _Thrumming_ makes its way through her, up to her chest and down to her toes.

She feels… _Powerful_ , in her mind. She understands the… _Mechanical_ side of intimate relations, and has heard enough terrible rumours regarding it all, but Sansa suddenly finds herself imagining crude variations instead.

She sits atop him, this man - she feels heat prickle all over her skin at the thought, this time not at all to do with her shame or the heat of the room -, looks into those kind eyes, feels those strong hands holding her close.

He is gentle as his hands roam over her shift - her breathing quickens, her fingers rubbing circles intensely -, and though he is eager, he is not… Absent. He is present, and he sees her, and looks into her eyes with a silent, unspoken enthusiasm.

Sansa can feel her heart quicken at the action, accelerated further by a small part of her mind’s disbelief at her own actions - and such obscene _thoughts! -_ but another part, freshly awaken and greedy for more, is grateful.

_Very_ grateful.

… But then Sansa remembers Ramsay. 

It as if she is back in standing before the Iron Throne again, being beaten by Joffrey’s men, reliving that first strike - that is the force with which she suddenly remembers.

She abruptly stops, angry at herself for allowing his last words to her to exert their power - _I’m a part of you now_ -, but cannot help but find herself… Stuck, as she remembers the marks on her body; some seen, others that exist only within her mind, making her flinch at the thought of being touched.

Sansa rests her hand, sore and damp, on her stomach as she considers this. The promise of… _More_ immediately begins to ebb away.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa closes her eyes and shakes her head. _No_. Perhaps if her actions were being dictated out of curiosity rather than defiance against Ramsay, Sansa would have yielded by now - but her pride demands otherwise.  _You must know yourself_.

_Calm yourself_ , she tells herself. _Try again_ …

Gently, Sansa allows her fingers to move downwards again… And on the way down, Sansa finds an odd bump - but before she can worry, her mouth opens in a breathless gasp… As the innocent gesture causes her legs to… _Twitch_ , almost.

She finds herself shaky - and as Sansa thinks of the lover she has conjured in her mind, soft and gentle and kind and strong - , she experimentally repeats the movement… Only this time, with considerable more care.

Focusing intently, Sansa slowly returns to the ebbing feeling - only this time, sharper, more urgent -, a soft, yet… _Heavy_ pressure evading her at every turn.

Sansa concentrates, making her movements faster and enjoying the thrill that runs up her spine with each one. A dazed haze of curiosity and… _Lust_ feels to engulf her, her imagination once again thriving.

This lover, this knight she imagines - he pays no mind to Ramsay's marks, and nor does she. She Is lost in him - and Sansa finds her breathing to become more laboured as she sees it, _lives_ it, the wetness from earlier now trickling between her cheeks.

He kisses her with those soft lips; engulfs her in his strong arms; his fingers run through her hair tenderly as he adores her with his warm, brown eyes…

Sansa nods to herself with satisfaction. _Yes,_ she thinks smugly, as pleasure begins to coil tightly beneath her fingers. _Yes, b_ _rown eyes_. Nowhere near the blue hues of the eyes that once tormented her, in King's Landing or Winterfell; brown enough to make her feel safe, like her father's, but also different, darker, too, dark enough that Sansa may lose herself in them and call them her new home.

Her lover does not shy away from Ramsay's dark art, to which her body remains the canvas; nor does he ignore them. Sansa's legs widen and her body begins to tense, her breathing unsteady in the darkness - his eyes remain on hers behind her eyelids as his hands roam freely over her, his mouth full and supple and dedicated as it moves from her lips to her neck, painting over what once was. 

Sansa's free hand clutches at where her shift has ridden to her stomach, underneath the furs. Her fingers continue to move, stroking, circling, fast but not fast enough. Her toes curl and she feels goosebumps rise on her skin, and Sansa is no longer in control -

Her fingers move, hackles rise on her skin and her back arches, her folds slick as she sees him - holding her, caressing her, _loving_ her - when her legs jerk, her heart stops, as she hears him, his voice, resolute and true and sincere, causing something new and wanton within her to whisper from the darkness -

_You're beautiful._

She is powerless as her legs begin to tremble, as she gasps to herself, warmth spreading through her legs and to her feet, up her chest and to the tips of her fingers; as her body stretches, pleasure lapping over her body like water.

It is now, as her breathing remains heavy, that her voice whispers to her.

_Jon._

Sansa's eyes fly open in incredulous recognition - _no_  - before squeezing shut as she experiences exactly as the raven scrolls described. _Ecstasy._

Sansa doesn’t want to see it, doesn't want to imagine it - but her mind has run away from her, now unbound and finally free. She hears his kind, sincere voice from the crypts, months ago now - _you're beautiful_ \- as she realises it was Jon's voice all along…

But not just his voice - his dark brown eyes glinting in the candlelight, his strong, hard arms, the kindness of his smile. Sansa sees it not just in her memories, but in her dreams, too; his rough hands over her soft skin, his fingers tangled in her hair, the strength she sees in her eyes as she embraces him, her cousin, husband, _Jon…_

Sansa is no longer tired: her every nerve is alive, every hair, every bone, all of the blood in her body singing. She can only gasp sharply, her eyes squeezed shut, as she feels a thin veil of sweat break all over her. Liquid gold runs through her veins and she feels, just for a moment, as if her soul leaves her body in complete, inexplicable bliss, as the unnamed man of her fantasies replays over and over with the face of a man she knows so well.

When it finally ends - and it feels like hours -, Sansa stares, horrified, at the ceiling.

Her body still trembles, though it feels fluid and lazy in comparison to her turbulent mind. The sweat begins to cool on her face and neck and chest, and the dampness that only moments ago she had so enjoyed, rapidly cools too, in a puddle sticking her shift to back.

_Jon!_ Her body sings happily, as Sansa closes her eyes and feels tears begin to well. Tears of shame, humiliation and disgust. _Jon! Jon, Jon, Jon!_  

Sansa has not thought of him. Hardly at all since his departure for King's Landing, barely beyond her political understanding and her situation's effect on her role in the North. She has not thought of him as a husband. And whilst, yes, she has made a deliberate effort to refer to him as _cousin_ instead of brother (if at all)… Never, _never_ , has Sansa considered him beyond their conversation In the crypt. One that had taught her that, ignoring his title of _brother_ or _bastard_ from before, Jon Is simply a good, kind man with a somewhat pleasant face, in his own right. Nothing more. A man for whom Sansa only wishes the Gods' greatest mercies and gifts, as not just a… _Cousin_ , but as a woman and a Queen.

And yet….

And yet the man whose face she imagined when playing her body under her fingertips, when beginning to erase Ramsay's face and cruelties from her mind, is Jon's. Who, even as she lies there, she sees pounding his fist into Ramsay's face, stopping only when his eyes meet hers.

Her hips involuntarily jerk themselves upwards at the thought - and Sansa, with tears now brimming in her eyes, suddenly swings herself out of bed. Whether her tears are angry or sad... She is unsure.

She is disgusting, _vile_ , behaving like nothing more than a low-born whore. She presses her clean hand to her mouth as she sees the fingers on the other glistening in the dim light of the chamber, hearing nothing but a roaring in her ears and the last crackles of the fire in the night. She jumps to action, like a puppet on a string - all but ripping her shift from her body and throwing it to the floor, her hair barely returning to their loose waves before she steps into the cold tub of bath water from before.

She fights tears, scrubbing at herself, shivering and sniffling as the wind blows. Even the iciness of the metal cannot stop the soft caresses of her remaining pleasure, intensifying her shivers in a way she wishes she could ignore.

The worst part of all is that she does not feel _dirty -_ not the way she did with Ramsay, filthy and defiled and desperate to separate her skin from her very bones. She feels cozy and sleepy and perhaps only slightly cold, her skin still hot from her thoughts, thoughts her mind replays as Sansa glances at the bed with a trembling lip.

It is only her conscience that she can trust - it is the only voice, however small, that reprimands her for her baseness.

Wishing the night away, Sansa pushes herself out of the water, shivering as, naked, she curls up under the furs - careful to avoid the small, single spot that marks where she had previously been.

She is sure she will not sleep.She suddenly hates this room, what she's done to it in her mind - and is sure that, shame and penance, _justified_ shame and penance, will keep her from it. 

It does not. Sansa soon falls asleep, and sleeps fitfully - and wakes to unwanted dreams of a man with soft lips, kind eyes and strong arms... Much to her despair.

*

 

**_King's Landing_ **

   
Jon cannot sleep.

He feels… Odd, as if he is being watched, and the heat of the city prickles uncomfortably on his skin. He never would have thought it, but he misses the cold. The warmth of Winterfell. Arya's discerning glare - and Sansa's small, truly _happy_ , smile…

_You're doing this for her_ , Jon tells himself. _For everything you owe her. For everything she deserves, for everything the Starks could never give you, that she did._ Love _,_ unconditionally _._ His throne.

Trust, given without question.

He cannot abandon the North, the Starks. _Her_. A beauty and a sharp mind, a rare thing, a red-haired warrior that reminds him of a woman he once knew. He owes it to Sansa - to protect her, to support her, to sacrifice his happiness if it means he will keep his word and make sure she is safe.

Jon remembers their conversation in the crypt. _You can't unsee it_. She is beautiful and strong and loving - but so is the other Queen on Jon's mind. 

_But it's Sansa who needs my help._ Daenerys has won her throne, on her terms - nobody would dare to upset the Mother of Dragons, as Queen or wife. Sansa does not have that surety. Sansa has already suffered enough.

Angrily throwing off the soft silk of his blanket, Jon puts on his boots and heads out of his chambers. Gendry and Sir Davos have their own chambers too, further down the hall - Jon is careful to be quiet as he sneaks past them.

His footsteps echo against the stone and, before he can even realize it, Jon finds himself in the cellar of the Red Keep, amongst the dragon skulls.

He slows as he sees the familiar figure standing before him, her silver hair in long, loose waves falling down her robe. 

"I'm sorry." Jon says quietly, though his voice rings in the silence. He's not sure why he speaks - Daenerys seems still, lost in thought, and may not have even noticed his presence. "I didn’t mean to disturb you." 

"You weren’t." She hesitates - before glancing at Jon over her shoulder. "You couldn't sleep either?"

Jon shakes his head.

Daenerys turns her attention back to the skulls - and before Jon can stop himself, he finds himself standing beside her, their arms almost brushing.

"Do you think the Mother of Dragons is all I'll ever be?" She finally asks, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Jon stares down at her in surprise, immediately understanding the weight of Daenerys' question.

"I thought you said-"

"I said I had been told." Daenerys says - before giving him a wry smile. "But once, I was also told that dragons were gone."

Jon manages a small smile. "And look how that turned out."

Daenerys laughs once - and Jon believes it to be genuine. He hopes she understands that... He wants it for her. Happiness, children, if that's what she desires.

He just cannot be the one to give it to her. He is bound by his promise to Sansa, by his honour as a Stark... Even if he no longer is recognised as one.

They stare at the skulls in silence, the largest still damaged from the days of Cersei. The crossbow remains in its eye. It's ugly to look at, and Jon is surprised to feel a sense of anger at the thought of the remaining dragons being hurt.

Neither one of them can help it. Their eyes wander to a small patch of wall, where they once stood, tangled.

"I understand, you know." Daenerys says - and though her face is carefully calm, she does not face him. "I do. Truly."

"I think I know that." Jon replies heavily, his eyes, too, trained before him.

Their arms brush. 

"You're promised to another." It is in response to a question that remains unasked between them, but is completely understood.

Daenerys' hand falls from in front of her, to her sides - and her fingers brush Jon's, too, until somehow, their hands are entwined.

They still do not look at each other.

"Not yet, I'm not."

Daenerys inclines her head slightly. 

"I won't be the other woman."

"I don’t want you to be." Jon replies honestly - and then they look at each other.

It is not the romantic goodbye they were likely to expect - and it is not pleasurable, as it was before. It is… Sad. Sad and hard, but pretending to be soft, a mere shadow of their last encounter. Jon pulls away before he can spill his seed, and they both know why - and despite their feelings, and their understanding, however confusing, of the course of events they expect to follow… They both immediately feel regret once it is over, even though Daenerys' legs still feel weak from Jon's tongue.

When Jon goes to help Daenerys fix her gown back over her breast, she gently shrugs him aside. Her hair is messy from being caught against the stone, and Jon's chest hurts at how, already, their goodbye feels so wrong.

"Be safe on the Kingsroad." Daenerys mumbles - and before Jon has even fully tucked himself away, she is gone, quickly walking away from him without a second glance.

"Thank you, Your Grace." He replies quietly, watching her with mournful eyes. She does not respond.

By daybreak, Jon, Gendry and Sir Davos are already riding for Winterfell; and as the dragons sleep behind them, Jon leaves with them his memories of the night before. 


End file.
